


In the Cold Transition to Autumn

by classics_above_classics



Series: Alice Dorothy and Stories Set Elsewhere [14]
Category: Elsewhere University (Webcomic)
Genre: Baking, Cooking, Deals, Dubious Ethics, Gen, Guile Hero, Minor psychological trauma, Revenge, Searching for Lento, part three, the Fair Folk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 16:21:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19380334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classics_above_classics/pseuds/classics_above_classics
Summary: Autumn the first.(Lento is still not here.)





	In the Cold Transition to Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> Watch me write a near-3000 word update for Autumn Part One.
> 
> I really was lying to myself when I thought this was going to be only five parts. Like, we have a new character, and some hostility between friends, and weird actions on Alice D.'s part, and honestly? This is probably going to be a full arc, not even a mini-arc, for Lyric-Weaver. I'm going to have to break this up with University shenanigans next update, lmao.

Autumn has always held Summer in contempt.

It is not Lyric-Weaver’s place to wonder why. Still, they do. They don’t quite understand the beings of this transitional season, the beings that find such pride in their place at Elsewhere University. The University in itself is but a single bastion of humanity; it does not, then, make sense to find pride in a single place of equality when the Autumn Court is inferior everywhere else. They don’t say it out loud, of course- they don’t dare- but in the deepest cores of their branches and leaves, they wonder.

It is, without a doubt, a pain that they do. It means they can’t simply walk into the Autumn lands, that they must either hide or request permission to search. It would bring them attention to ask permission. It would make people notice them. And they don’t need any of that in a simple search for a silly, stupid little human girl who’d dared to place a curse on her own room.

But hiding would be even worse of an idea. It is still autumn at the University, after all, still chilly, brisk October with its red leaves and dying plants. If anyone found them- _when_ anyone found them, really, they’re not stupid enough to think they can hide when autumn is nearing its peak- they’d be destroyed. They’d be punished severely, if not made to serve some Autumn noble as repayment. They’d never get out.

Best, then, to swallow their pride and ask. It would be remiss not to.

Still, there would be no reason for those of Autumn to give them permission. They are no high noble. They are Summer, held in disdain by fae under the transitional seasons’ Courts, and they have nothing to trade in return. Even now, on the border of the Autumn lands, the crows atop the red-leafed branches watch them cautiously. They have no reason to be allowed in.

They’ll simply have to make a reason, then.

Turning away from the border, Lyric-Weaver lets themselves fade, stepping through the boundary between worlds and heading towards Elsewhere University.

⋈

The cafeteria is still buzzing with human noise when Lyric-Weaver enters it.

They don’t expect to be missed. Why would they? They’ve only been here two or three weeks, really, perhaps a month if they counted the one that had passed. Because a week has passed, since their day in their homeland, and they knew well that it would be that way. Once they complete their task here, likely only a few seconds will have passed. It is… comforting. Knowing that they can take as long as they need to finish.

No-one truly seems to care when they work their way through the tables. They have only been here three weeks, have really only been noticed for three weeks, so it makes sense that at most they are a passing curiosity and at the least they are something or someone to ignore. No-one pays attention when they head for the food, piling two, three trays high with sweet offerings. No-one seems to care.

Correction. Two people seem to care.

Because the moment Lyric-Weaver is visible from the usual table, Connor’s face lights up.

It’s instinctive, really, the cheer and familiarity that comes across their expression. It can’t be faked. Lyric-Weaver lets themself savour it for a moment, watches the smile already starting to clear their slight frown. Connor is lovely when they’re smiling. They move quickly to remove some of their iron, shifting in their seat to clear up space by the third chair, and-

They stop.

Lyric-Weaver follows their gaze to the Debt-Breaker, who looks more nauseous than usual. She brushes fingers delicately by her throat before tearing off her glasses, quickly shoving them into her pocket. There’s an unhealthy pallor to her cheeks that wasn’t there before, and she’s gripping her fork so tightly it looks like it’s digging marks into her skin.

Shit. Right. They’d threatened her. She could turn that against them, couldn’t she? She could make them owe her at any time, could call into existence a debt, a price, a pound of flesh to be extracted. Would she?

There’s the faint flicker of a debt between them, something thin and flexible as nylon, before it fades from sight. She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t do it.

But the chance is still, unmistakeably, there.

Good. At least Lyric-Weaver knows where they stand.

They approach the table their friend is on confidently, pulling out their chair with a tug of vines that, behind their human semblance, looks like nudging the chair out with their foot. “Good day,” they greet quietly. “Was I missed?”

“Where did you go?!” Connor’s voice is about loud enough to draw attention. Surreptitiously, Lyric-Weaver throws up wards around them for privacy. “I- you know what? That doesn’t matter. What’s more important is that you _threatened D.!_ Why would you do that?! You actually hurt nem! And all because- what? Because you thought ne cast some spell on you without any evidence that it was them, and you couldn’t keep your goddamn thorns to yourself?!”

“Connor.” Debt-Breaker’s voice is toneless, oddly so, as if she isn’t quite hearing herself. “Stop.”

“You want me to _stop_?! D., I had to see you directly after you got back that day. There were _plants in your wounds_. As if you being fucking choked wasn’t bad enough-!”

“I’m coping. Please don’t yell.” _Yelling will get you hurt_ , Lyric-Weaver hears. Perhaps the Debt-Breaker is more cautious than they’d expected. The 3N students don’t seem the cautious type. Rather, they seem all too clumsy. All too blunt. If Connor wasn’t theirs, if Connor wasn’t their friend...

Well, Lyric-Weaver didn’t really want to think of what they’d do.

“Don’t do that again,” the Debt-Breaker says flatly, fixing Lyric-Weaver with a dark look that makes them rethink her caution. “I- I don’t want to hate you, Lyric-Weaver. I don’t want to hate you.”

It’s not a threat, and that’s the oddest part.

“What are you doing?” Debt-Breaker asks, turning stiffly to the trays full of food they had set on the table. Presumably, she’s only doing this because Connor is still fuming, silent and filled to the brim with a rage that doesn’t fit right on their cute face. “Is that all yours?”

“I need to make a trade,” Lyric-Weaver replies. “A Deal. I believe I could trade food for it. If I’m going to find what I need to find, if I’m going to get where I need to go...”

Something softens in Debt-Breaker’s eyes. Lyric-Weaver hasn’t the slightest idea why.

“All those cold sweets? In autumn?” She levels a searching gaze over the array of food spread over the trays. “Isn’t that a little disconcerting? It’s really... light, isn’t it? Shouldn’t autumn food be heavier? More filling?”

Lyric-Weaver stares disbelievingly. They’ve always preferred cold sweets. Why would those be bad offerings? Is it a human understanding they don’t have yet?

“Have you heard of caramelized bacon?” the Debt-Breaker asks. “Or pumpkin pie? Dutch waffles? Chicken and bacon skewers? French toast? Cinnamon rolls?”

“Are you mocking me?”

“I’m making suggestions. And I’m not mocking you. If you’ll accept it, I’d like to help you with... whatever you’re going to do with that food. Prepare new kinds? Arrange it into something presentable? Anything is fine.” There’s an open, offered honesty to the psychology major that Lyric-Weaver does not understand. Why would she do this with no prompting? Why would she want to be around them any more than she already is?

“It’s freely offered,” she continues. As if they could not already see that.

“I’m coming if ne’s coming,” Connor cuts in, that fury still unsheathed like a blade in their expression. “It’s also free. I can keep watch. Over the food and stuff. Whatever you were talking about.”

Lyric-Weaver stares, openly stares, at the two students who seem so different. The hostility is in the wrong person. The hatred is in the wrong person’s eyes.

“Of course you can,” they get out hesitantly, and they watch as both students sag. Debt-Breaker reaches forward questioningly, towards one of Lyric-Weaver’s three trays, and they nod to let her take it with permission. She takes the lead, heading for the counters to switch out some of the food.

“I could ask the lunch ladies if we can use the yellow kitchen,” Debt-Breaker suggests, seeming more comfortable with the idea than she has with anything else. “If that’s alright? It’s got a sort of time dilation effect, so when we come out, it’ll only have been a few minutes or so. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Connor says in response, but Lyric-Weaver almost doesn’t hear them. A kitchen that defies time, like the land of Faerie or like that particular laundry room? Why would she know? Shouldn’t that be kept to the staff, to the lunch ladies or anyone working in the kitchens? How would she have found out?

“Why that kitchen? Have you done this before?” It’s almost an interrogation. Almost. Lyric-Weaver doesn’t think they can interrogate anyone with Connor’s hateful gaze turned upon them. “How did you find it?”

It’s silent for a moment. The Debt-Breaker’s paused, something unreadable playing across their face, something sad and fond and furious.

“Lento taught me how to cook there,” she answers softly, and that is the end of that.

⋈

There is a picnic basket set down at the border of the Summer scarce minutes later.

The food is better than they could have made themself, Lyric-Weaver admits. Connor has a wonderful eye, knowing just when anything is cooked and just when something can be taken from the pan. Debt-Breaker has a mind for design, brimming with plating ideas and possible dishes. With access to whatever “YouTube” is and a room where time runs counter to the human clock, they have enough to make a proper feast.

Connor sings when they cook. Lyric-Weaver does not know why they hold that thought so close.

Carefully, oh so carefully, they spread out a picnic mat, letting it just straddle the edge of the border where Summer’s green grass starts to go brown and yellow. They arrange the food packed into the basket without a sound, vines looping carefully and delicately around so many plates and containers and trays for presentation. There are eyes watching them endlessly as they do. They pay those eyes no mind.

This is a very human plan, they admit. It reeks of fairytales. It is full to the brim with human desperation; it bleeds with the sheer persistence humanity has dreamed up and turned into their fuel. But it is a plan. Better than accosting the crows on their own. Better than threatening and lying their way in.

Perhaps the 3N students are not so foolish. It is far faster to get what one wants when one asks outright. And right now, they need to be fast.

Lyric-Weaver looks up, summoning every last drop of patience within them. They stare back at the Autumn fae and do not blink.

“I would like to make a Deal!”

The words hang unanswered in the silent air.

Distinctly, Lyric-Weaver feels that someone is laughing at them. Multiple people, maybe. Multiple beings, fey and not, revelling in their foolishness and at their desperation. They do not understand why any humans would put themselves through this. They do not understand why so many would muster up the courage to. This will be remembered. They are being mocked.

They are not going to give in to the mocking. They sit, and they wait.

⋈

It feels as if it has been days when someone finally answers.

It has not been days. Perhaps in the human world, yes- it was a Tuesday when they first returned, and it is a Thursday now. But it has been mere hours here, only from the highest noon to sunset. The sun does not quite set here. It simply grows darker. But it is a close enough approximation.

The mocking faded only two hours in. Perhaps it was the human semblance they wore. Perhaps it was the lack of embarrassment they showed. But fair folk bored quickly enough. They lost interest.

Except, really, for one.

Lyric-Weaver could not tell the difference between it and the other crows. There was nothing distinguishing it. It sat on similar branches, had feathers all pointed the same way, was not smaller or bigger or anything more than deceptively, undeniably ordinary. But it had not stopped watching. It stayed behind even as the others left, blinking down at them without shifting from its perch. They do not dare it to come closer. It will on its own.

Finally, after far too long, it flaps its wings, flying forward towards them.

The crow stays on its side of the border; it hops away from the places the grass becomes healthy. Slowly, as if it is testing a boundary, its form shifts to a human’s semblance, a tall, dark-skinned boy with black hair and black eyes.

It’s playing with them.

Lyric-Weaver does not flinch, simply stays unmoving in their place. The crow-boy lets out a sharp, teasing laugh.

“You’ve been here a while.”

“I have, yes.”

“I don’t know what to call you,” the Autumn fae says, its-his voice a raspy tenor in an unfamiliar throat. He looks like a human, in stance, posture, movement. It’s odd, really, for a fae.

“You can call me Lyric-Weaver,” they reply. They do not volunteer more information. Best to see what he wants, first.

“What are the conditions of your Deal?” the crow-boy asks. He’s stopped blinking. It’s much less disconcerting to see lidless eyes staring down at them than those of someone pretending to be human. “I do hope you’re throwing in all this good food at some point.”

“I came to request passage to the Autumn lands.’

At that, the boy lets out another high laugh. It cuts off quickly when he scans their face. “Wait. You’re serious?”

“Entirely.”

He whistles lowly. “Well. That’s an issue, isn’t it? What are you here for, Lyric-Weaver? Why do you want in?”

“I am searching for a human girl who has wronged me.” It’s entirely true. And clearly, for the autumnal little crow, it’s not enough information. “I would like to offer this food in exchange for passage into the lands of Autumn. I understand if compromises or concessions are made, such as a time limit or a watcher or some other form of geas. However, I mean no harm to the inhabitants. I only want to find her and punish her for her actions.”

“Wow. You had a whole speech planned out and everything!” The crow-boy smirks, the mocking behind it practically dripping off his words. Lyric-Weaver very carefully does not react. “Still, though... You would trade only this? Do we really mean so little to you Summer fae?”

Without breaking their gaze, Lyric-Weaver reaches into the basket and sets down three more platters of caramelized bacon. And a pumpkin pie. Dutch waffles. Chicken and bacon skewers. French toast. Cinnamon rolls. The crow-boy’s eyebrows rise higher at every new addition, nearly disappearing into his hairline.

“Alright, that could work,” he concedes at the second pitcher of apple cider, clearly more than a little taken aback. Lyric-Weaver’s a little proud of that. There’s enough food in the basket to offer double this to the Winter fae, and nearly triple to the gluttonous Spring- Debt-Breaker would have made quadruple for Summer if her constitution and Connor would let her. “Stop. Alright, fine, I’ll make the Deal. I’ll let you into Autumn and you’ll trade me all that food you put down, okay? We can talk specifics when I’m done eating.”

“Why not discuss specifics now?” The crow-boy looks almost impressed at their boldness. To be honest, so are they. “It would be easier to think of something fair without the food making you drowsy after eating it, wouldn’t it?”

“Spoken like someone wanting me to agree to eating less than deserving food.”

Boldness for boldness. Alright, then. “I would never do such a thing. If you ask for proof, take any one of the foods here as a sample. Any choice you have will be deserving.”

The crow-boy raises an eyebrow. “You swear?”

“I swear.”

“Well, I suppose I could...” Carefully, his magic swirling cautiously around him, he reaches out and takes a slice of pumpkin pie. Clearly more than a little suspicious, he bites into it.

His eyes widen.

“You win this round,” he laughs, finishing off the slice in record time and offering his free hand. “You know what? Sure. Let’s go. This is fair. I’ll take you through Autumn and watch out for you on your search in exchange for this whole spread. Deal?”

“Deal.” Lyric-Weaver takes it. This was faster than they’d expected it to be.

The crow-boy grins, a sharp flash of a smirk that feels like a crisp wind, and he plops down to dig in.

“If we are to be travelling together,” Lyric-Weaver asks when he is done, watching the boy dust crumbs off his clothes like he’s preening his wings, “what am I to call you? It would be disrespectful to call you Crow Boy, I imagine.”

“You might be right on that.” The crow-boy laughs. “Really, I’m not exactly sure what to call myself. Be warned, Lyric-Weaver- it may not be good.”

“I won’t mind.”

“Of course you won’t.” That smile grows a little more crooked. “Alright. I’ll think of something, then.”

After a moment of silence, a silence clearly not spent in thought, the crow-boy grins.

“Call me Ban.”


End file.
